Pet Cobra

Captain America, F*ck Yeah!

This seemed appropriate. Or not. Anyway, happy 4th.

Link:

40/40: Mustache

38. Grow A Mustache. For details, read the full story here. And don't worry - it's coming off.

The Man In The Mirror

I feel like I should have something to say about the death of Michael Jackson; I do write about pop culture stuff, and this was, after all, the King of Pop.

I was never a fan. I won a copy of Off The Wall at a youth center bingo game when I was a kid; the only album in my rotation back then was the Star Wars soundtrack. I liked "Beat It", but only because of Eddie Van Halen - I was wearing bandanas and parachute pants in those days, and Michael Jackson wasn't my trip, dude. It didn't matter; he sold millions of albums anyway. 

Lots of things didn't matter, when it came to Michael Jackson. He was "eccentric", "troubled", "childlike", "a Peter Pan figure". These are the words that people told themselves when the stories began to emerge; it didn't matter, the accusations, the payoffs. A father who treated his own children like animate dolls, to be dressed up and paraded around and dangled from balconies. A grown man who enjoyed sleeping with young boys. I wonder if there was ever a point when the kid that carried the Jackson 5 realized that whatever humanity he once had was slowly starting to slip away. These things didn't matter; he sold millions of albums. He was the King of Pop. 

Where The Day Takes You

Sometimes when I open up the Compose New Post: Pet Cobra page, I have nothing in my head but a title. That's the case today - I stole the title from some movie about a bunch of homeless teenagers. I think. I never saw the movie. I could look it up on IMDB but that would distract me from the purpose at hand, which is to put stuff behind the title, give us both something to read.

The day takes me in all sorts of directions, now that I'm not confined to an office. Everything is work, except when it's not. There is always something to clean - dishes or clothes or the dog or the floors. There are insurance people to talk to. There are bills. There is the work behind the writing - "leveraging social media", reading and responding to emails, constantly checking and worrying over site traffic, planning for the next few posts. The writing is not work, except when it is. There are two kids. One is at day camp and getting him there is work. One is not and right now she's standing up in her crib and shrieking when she should be napping. She's work, except when she's in your arms and you are consoling her; that's not work, not at all, it's something deep and as definable as the edges of a nebula. 

The other day I was running. Barefoot, on the beach, at the water's edge. Miles of sand and cliffs ahead of me and an endless ocean to my right, and then turning around to my left. This was play with a substantial amount of work - heart and lungs and blood so loud as to cause complete silence. I was thinking about work - the work of writing, and the difference between writing as craft and writing as art. I ran past a couple of spearfishermen walking out of the surf. Spears and flippers and masks and snorkels. No fish. The writer/craftsman: "they came back empty-handed". But I knew the truth.

(Not a lot of people read this site. I'm glad. This is not work, this is play.)

A Father's Day Wish

To the dads out there: may your weekend be filled with meat and televised sports and alcoholic beverages. Lucas, take us out.